


Bait

by DearSherlock



Series: Sherlock - Adriane Woodford [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, BDSM, F/M, Guns, Het, Mild Language, Restraint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearSherlock/pseuds/DearSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  “This is no longer a matter of science, Adriane,” Sherlock says calmly, “I wouldn’t need to ask if it was. It is a matter of life and death.” Quite apart from the reminder that I should expect to be available for scientific experiment without question, there is no doubt that what he is asking of me is a mad, dangerous, indeed perilous thing. It could end badly in any number of unimaginable ways. I am wondering why I came back here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> This fic is a sequel to Control

It’s been three months since that strange night in Baker Street. Life for me has changed – I have a new job and am working full time in the chemistry department at UCL. It’s a nice crowd, the department head is a lovely and very supportive lady, and I am enjoying myself. There are some nice men in the group, too, but I am finding that nobody is making much of an impression on me these days. There has been no word from Sherlock Holmes, and I have come to the conclusion that I will not hear from him again. That does not, unfortunately, mean that I have been able to move on. I believe I am beginning to get a reputation for being a hard catch, but it does mean I get left alone and that suits me.

Just after lunch this Tuesday I am making my way back from the canteen when my telephone beeps with a text alert. I check my phone.   
  
“221B Baker Street. Now would be good. Take some leave. SH,” it says.

I stop dead. The girl behind me bumps into me and I mumble an apology, moving out of the flow of traffic. My hands are shaking, and it takes me a moment to regain my composure. I’m not sure what to do. The sensible part of me is telling me to ignore the text, stick with the easy life, keep walking and just get back to work. What is he thinking contacting me like that after all this time, anyway? I remember what happened last time, how I was sore for days after, and John’s warning.

_“He’s not safe, Sherlock. You need to be careful.”_

But all sensible thought is being drowned out by a compelling urge to just walk out the door and head straight to Baker Street, whatever may come. It isn’t quite that simple though, and I need to sort a few things out before I disappear. Thankfully things are quiet at work and once I have made my mind up that I am going – obviously common sense is irrelevant when it comes to my reactions to Sherlock – it is easy enough to take the rest of the week off.  
  
My manager, Sophie, is a little surprised at the immediacy of the request, but I manage to invent a fairly convincing excuse of family issues which she seems happy to accept. I make my way out of the college and decide to walk to Baker Street, hoping that I will be able to make myself look calm and composed in the meantime.

I stop in front of the familiar door, and knock. This time I have few second thoughts, although I am feeling apprehensive about what I am here for. Three months ago, in a moment of madness, I offered him the use of my body for scientific purposes. I am sure he has not forgotten. The door is opened by Mrs Hudson, who looks pleased to see me.  
  
“Oh hello dear”, she says, “come in, I’ll bring you right upstairs. I do think they’re waiting for you”.   
  
So, I’m expected then. I hang up my coat in the hallway. She leads me up the stairs and knocks on the door. “Whoo-hoo. She’s here!” she says around the door before letting me in.

The room is exactly as I remember it: cluttered with paperwork and fascinating objects. Skull on the mantelpiece, gnu with headphones, books everywhere. John Watson is sitting at the desk with his laptop, looking, for want of a better word, homely. Sherlock is standing looking at the wall, which is covered in pieces of paper. I try not to stare at him, to let it show how much I have missed seeing his imposing figure. He is looking as impeccably dressed as I remember, focussed, restless. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, palms of his hands pressed at his chin, bottom lip resting on his fingertips. I find it hard to keep my eyes off him, but I also feel very nervous. John says hello.  
  
“I hear you’ve got a new job?”    
  
I am grateful he has broken the silence, as I am not sure what I am doing here. “Yes, I went back to UCL. It’s good. I was only around the corner just now.”   
  
He nods. “sounds great. Tea?”   
  
I say yes, that would be nice. He goes off to the kitchen, leaving me still standing aimlessly in the room. I look over at the wall that Sherlock is studying. It is covered in a map of London surrounded by photographs, which are connected to the map with bits of string. Sticky notes are spread around the map and photos. It’s an elaborate thing, and it looks some time in the making. I move a little closer to see what the notes are saying. There are dates and times, names, numbers. All of the photographs are of women, by the look of them in their early twenties.   
  
“Look at this, John.” Sherlock says, pointing to something on the map. He looks over at me, then stops. He looks a little disturbed.   
  
“Adriane. Where’s John?” I realise he really hasn’t heard me come in.   
  
“He’s in the kitchen, making tea,” I say.   
  
Sherlock looks me over, then turns back to the map. “Still single then,” he says, “and not even looking.”   
  
I open my mouth to respond, but no words form. I wonder how he figured that out. I also hope he won’t extrapolate the thought and work out _why_ I am not looking.   
  
“It’s written all over your clothes, your hair, the way you carry yourself. Good to see the new job is working out though.”   
  
I’d forgotten about the mind reading.

“Lucy Smith, twenty-one, disappeared late evening near Guy Street Park two weeks ago after a minor row with her boyfriend,” Sherlock says, pointing at one of the photographs.  It takes me a minute to work out that he is explaining his current case to me. He points at another photograph.  
  
“Sarah Overton, nineteen, disappeared near Tanner Street twelve days ago, while walking home alone after a night out with friends.”   
  
The photograph shows a smiling young woman. She’s pretty. Another photo.   
  
“Suzanne Wright, twenty-three, disappeared last week near Tabard Gardens while visiting a late-night shop to get some supplies for her partner and young child.”    
  
A knot is forming in my stomach. I wonder where this is going. He points to the next one, relentless.   
  
“Emily Taylor, twenty, disappeared from outside her flat on Law Street seven days ago. She lives alone, we don’t know why she went out or the exact time she disappeared.”   
  
A girl on her own, just like me, in just another normal street in London . Sherlock points to the last photograph, showing a beautiful blonde girl holding a laughing baby.   
  
“Alison Brown, twenty-four, disappeared yesterday night while walking back home from the Soho Gyms, leaving her husband and a six-month old daughter.”   
  
I’m feeling a little sick. The pattern is obvious even to me. I remember seeing something about Emily in the paper but I haven’t heard about the other ones.   
  
“The police are trying to keep it out of the news,” he says, looking at me, “it won’t take long for this to get into the papers though. We don’t have much time.”   
  
I am giving him a blank stare. I have no idea what he expects me to do. He walks over to me – too close – and says, “I need your help, Adriane.”

 

-oooOooo-

  
  
“Tea,” says John, coming back into the room.  
  
Sherlock takes a step back, giving John an odd look, and takes his mug. John gives me mine, and then goes back into the kitchen for his own tea. Sherlock gestures to the sofa, “Sit down.”  
  
I sit down, but he remains standing. There is something odd in his manner, he seems tense and impatient, but it is as if he is trying to contain it, to not let it show. I guess it must be to do with this case. John comes back in with his own tea and sits back down at the desk.  
  
“Five women,” Sherlock says, “Disappearing in the space of two weeks. All were on their own when they vanished, and they all went missing at night. They were all young, none of them suffered from any type of depression or serious problems at home, and all could be considered pretty.”  
  
He looks across to John for confirmation, who nods his agreement. I look again at the photographs from where I’m sitting. They all look gorgeous to me, and I just don’t understand how Sherlock can be so cold about this. I can’t help thinking about the two girls with children. The families must be frantic. And yet there he stands, sketching out this case as if it is an interesting puzzle. He walks back to the map, grabs a marker and draws a circle around the locations where the disappearances have occurred.    
  
“They have all disappeared from a relatively small area in London, but so far the police have drawn a blank. There have been no bodies or ransom demands, suggesting they were taken for a different reason. Human trafficking comes to mind. By now, they could be anywhere.”  
  
He looks momentarily angry.  
  
“If only they’d seen fit to bring me in on this case from the start, we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Then, quietly, he says almost to himself, “There’s nothing for it. There really is no other way.”  
  
John cuts through. “But they are searching the whole area at the moment, Sherlock. They have trebled the police presence in the last few days. Customs and the coast guard will be on the alert. Surely they’ll come up with something.”  
  
Sherlock looks scathing. “Pha. The police invariably miss the obvious. With a bit of good organisation and a small boat they can easily circumvent Customs and the coast guard. I wouldn’t hold out any hope in that direction.”  
  
He looks at me again, intense, serious.  
  
“As far as I can see there is only one way we will be able to locate them quickly. But it would be perilous, especially to you, Adriane. And you would be on your own.”  
  
 _Perilous_. _That’s a very beautiful word_ , I think, _for a very bad concept_. I am beginning to see what he is expecting from me. John has come to a similar conclusion.  
  
“Sherlock, no, you can’t be serious?”  
  
Sherlock is ready for the challenge, and puts the force of his frustration behind his response. “Just think about it, John. We are dealing with a professional gang here, that much is obvious. These girls will be out of the country in a matter of days and will never be heard from again. They will be trafficked to God knows where. Unless we act quickly and actually _find them_ , _get to them_ , we may as well give them up for dead now.”  
  
John looks absolutely horrified. “You are seriously suggesting… what? Putting Adri out there for bait? You’re mad!”  
  
Sherlock’s stance has gone calm, icy. “Unless you have a better idea, Doctor. Or we could just wait here for the police and coast guard to finish their _excellent_ searches.”  
  
John just stares at him in disbelief. Sherlock looks at me but doesn’t ask the question. I am frozen on the spot, not knowing what to think or say. He relaxes a little, and says, “Look, it would be easy. We know where they are operating. We know the kind of people they are targeting. And the right kind of technology and a bit of skill could lead us straight to them.”  
  
I am waiting for him to explain exactly how this would work, but he seems to think he’s said enough. He sits down at the other end of the sofa and looks straight at me. “This is no longer a matter of science, Adriane,” he says calmly, “I wouldn’t need to ask if it was. It is a matter of life and death.”  
  
Quite apart from the reminder that I should expect to be available for scientific experiment without question, there is no doubt that what he is asking of me is a mad, dangerous, indeed perilous thing. It could end badly in any number of unimaginable ways. I am wondering why I came back here. Unfortunately, the answer is sitting right next to me on the sofa, observing my internal struggle.  
  
To get away from his unnerving stare and to get my thoughts moving, I get up and walk across to the wall. I look at the photographs. Happy, smiling faces. Normal girls going about their everyday lives in London, ripped away from their families, to be… used, trafficked, sold, into a degrading existence, probably a short one at that. _They didn’t get asked_ , I think.  
  
I remember a darkened classroom at Roland Kerr College, the first time I saw Sherlock, utterly defiant in the face of death, amused at the very thought of it. _He does this every day_. It’s the face of the baby that tips the balance in the end. Although the thought crosses my mind that I have been skilfully set up, it doesn’t matter anymore. I look at John, then at Sherlock. John is looking drawn, worried, obviously hoping that I will say no. Sherlock is just watching me, his face expressionless, and only the slight narrowing of his eyes gives away the fact that he is impatient for an answer.  
  
“OK,” I say, my voice not sounding quite as calm as I had hoped, “I’ll do it.”

John’s reaction is not what I expected. I thought he would jump up, shout maybe, but he just slumps back in his chair, covers his face with one hand and sighs.  
  
“God, no…”  
  
Sherlock gives me a brief look of triumph, mixed with something else – pride? He is so hard to read. “Good,” he says, getting up, “there’s a few things we need to do.” He’s all action now, a spring released, charging ahead.  
  
“I had a look, but to be honest your wardrobe is atrocious. I got you this, though.” He throws me my handbag, the one that I use for nights out. _From my flat_.  
  
“There’s some shoes as well,” he says, pointing to what I recognise are my best shoes sitting in a corner. I look in the handbag. Make-up, lipstick, hair brush, toothbrush, toothpaste. Everything a girl needs for a night out. I look at him.  
  
“You went to my flat,” I say.   I can’t quite keep the astonishment from my voice. He just gives me a deadpan stare and says, “Clearly.”  
  
From the corner, John says, “Sherlock…”  
  
“Look,” Sherlock says, looking irritated by this trivia, stopped in mid-flow, “I saved us a lot of time. I got everything you need. Is there a problem?  
  
There is a clear, impatient challenge in his last words. He’s standing in the middle of the room, knowing full well he is looking intimidating, waiting for me to back down. I can’t help myself.  
  
“It would be nice if you’d asked,” I say.  
  
He just raises his eyebrows and turns away, superior smile in place, happy in the knowledge that he has won. _What if I’d said no?_ I think. _What if I had refused to help?_ But I was always going to agree, and he knows that, and so he’s done the logical thing and got stuff ready. Even when that meant breaking into my flat and rifling through my belongings. I look at John, who rolls his eyes at me. I guess this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I can’t help but notice that he’s looking very worried.

“John, I need you to go into town and buy Miss Woodford something decent to wear. Something _I’d_ be seen with,” Sherlock says.   
  
John looks at him, shaken from his worries.   
  
“What?”   
  
“She needs some clothes, John, something better than that,” he waves his hand vaguely in my direction. I check my outfit. I didn’t think it was that bad.   
  
“You’ve got a reasonable eye for women’s dress. Size twelve, don’t forget the tights.”   
  
John stares at him, then back at me. I shrug, trying not to let it get at me. There doesn’t seem much point in arguing, and he got the size right.   
  
“Why, where are _you_ going?” asks John, obviously wondering why he is being sent on this errand.   
  
“We’re off to Bart’s,” Sherlock says, grabbing his coat. “Back here in an hour, John. Come on, Adriane.”

I give John a final confused look, which he returns, and run after Sherlock. He is already out of the front door, hailing a cab. When one pulls up he holds open the door for me and I get in. The taxi ride is a quiet one. Sherlock is deep in thought, and I honestly don’t know what to say. I feel like I am once again falling down the rabbit hole, but while the last time the rabbit whole was comparatively safe, this one has got monsters in it. I am also conscious that I didn’t so much fall as was skilfully tipped into it. I am trying to imagine what might happen to me, then realise that it is better not to think about it as a host of graphic images flash in front of my mind’s eye. I can’t suppress a shudder, and Sherlock picks up on it. He looks at me.  
  
“Scared?” he asks.   
  
I nod, “Yes.” There is no point in denying it.   
  
“Hm,” he says, then looks out of the window again. Just another factor in a big equation, I guess, filed for reference. It doesn’t help me very much.

Eventually the taxi pulls up in front of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. We get out, and Sherlock leads the way until we get to a small lab. He hangs up his coat and starts pulling things out of drawers and cupboards. I notice syringes and swallow hard. Not my thing, at all, ever. Then he goes over to the fridge and takes out a number of glass ampoules. When he has a tray full of stuff, he gestures to a chair.  
  
“Take off your coat and roll your sleeve up,” he says.  
  
I hang up my jacket and sit down, no doubt looking apprehensive.  
  
“Ehm,” I say, “can I ask what all this is?”  
  
He looks at me, distractedly, as if I have just asked a completely irrelevant question.  
  
“What? Oh.” he says, obviously realising that an explanation might be in order. He points at the glass bottles. “Insurance. Vaccinations. We don’t know what they’ll do to you. Hep-A, Hep-B, HPV, and a general antibiotic. That one took a bit of getting,” he sounds pleased with himself as he points to an unlabeled bottle,   
  “But I think you’ll want it. It’s an experimental HIV vaccine currently on trial with the FBA.”  
  
I haven’t quite taken all this in and it takes a moment for the implications to hit me. _He is going on the assumption that they will rape me_ , I think. Also, it seems that he has planned this some time in advance. I wonder how long.   
  
He looks at me, and says, “problem?”  
  
“No,” I say, “Yes. How long have you been planning this?”  
  
He looks guarded when he replies, “Only since yesterday evening. I wasn’t sure this was necessary before then.”  
  
I shake my head, there’s nothing I can say to that. I am still holding my arm defensively close to my body. He is getting a syringe ready, skilfully removing the air in the needle, and gets an antiseptic wipe. He holds out his hand, obviously expecting me to offer him my arm. He raises an eyebrow when I don’t comply.  
  
“OK. I don’t like syringes. I hope you know what you are doing,” I say.  
  
He gives me a stony look, and says “trust me, I do.”  
  
There is something unspoken there, but there is a warning in his eyes telling me not to pry. I give him my arm, looking the other way.  
  
Sherlock has just administered the final injection when the door of the lab opens and Molly Hooper enters. She stops when she sees Sherlock, and then looks at me a little suspiciously.  
  
“Ah, Molly,” says Sherlock.  
  
She doesn’t look very sure of anything when she says, “What are you doing?”  
  
Her eyes are on the syringes. Sherlock straightens up, trying to judge the situation.  
  
“Molly, this is Adriane Woodford. She is helping me on a case,” he says.  
  
I say a very quiet “hi.” She just looks at me, and then back at Sherlock.  
  
“Anything I could have done?” she asks.  
  
It is clear Sherlock hasn’t got time for this. I guess having to restrain himself this afternoon at the flat while getting me to agree, John’s obvious disagreement and my own hesitance haven’t improved his mood. He sighs, and says, “I am about to set Adriane up to be abducted by a gang of sex traffickers. Chances are she will be raped in the proceeds, and if we’re really unlucky she might get herself killed before we can discover their hideout and get her back. I am giving her some vaccinations so that at least there’s a chance she won’t catch Hep-B, or worse, while she’s out there. Would you like to swap places?”  
  
His tone is sarcastic, and he ends his short tirade by fixing her with an evaluating stare.  
  
Molly has gone as pale as a sheet. I am not sure I look any better, all the blood has drained from my face after having the danger I am putting myself in described so matter-of-factly. She looks at me.  
  
“Is that true?” she asks, in a shaky voice.  
  
All I can do is nod.  
  
“So, I’d appreciate it if you could stop being jealous, and give me a hand,” Sherlock continues, oblivious to the level of shock he has caused in both of us.  
  
“Yeah, sure,” Molly says, vaguely. “What am I doing?”  
  
“There’s a sachet with a microchip in the pocket of my coat. Get it for me,” Sherlock says. He is rummaging in another drawer, “Ah.”  
  
He gets out another syringe, but the needle on this one is enormous. I’ve seen these, I had my cat microchipped some years ago and it nearly made me faint then. I feel dizzy. Sherlock grabs another chair and sits down. Molly passes him the microchip. He looks briefly at me, inserts the microchip into the syringe, then looks at me again, more searchingly this time. I have no idea what I look like, but it makes him stop.  
  
“Molly, get Adriane a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. We’re going to have to wait a moment.”  
  
He’s looking amused now. I don’t think it’s very funny. Molly leaves the room, and I try to find my composure.  
  
“Sorry,” I say, not looking at him.  
  
He’s still looking at me, making me feel very uncomfortable. I’m wondering if he thinks I’m not up for this. I look up, but he doesn’t seem all that concerned. Instead of the scathing remark that I was expecting, he holds up the syringe again.  
  
“This,“ he says, “is a GPS transponder chip. It is not in production yet. Not a lot of them have been tested. I am putting it here,” he touches the skin behind my collar bone, "Because I hope nobody will notice it there. And with this,” he picks up something that looks like a small remote control from the lab table, “I will be able to locate you anywhere in the world. OK?”  
  
It helps. I nod, and say yes. A few minutes later, Molly comes back into the room carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.  
  
“I made everyone one,” she says.  
  
“Thank you, Molly,” says Sherlock.  
  
He passes me my tea and puts the biscuits in front of me. They are both watching me now, and I just feel silly. I give a nervous giggle. “Stop staring at me.”  
  
Molly moves away, but it doesn’t stop Sherlock. After I have had a biscuit and a few sips, he picks up the syringe again. “Ready?” he asks.  
  
I nod, sit back and close my eyes. Although it hurts, it’s not as bad as I expected, and he is very quick.  
  
“Done,” he says, wheeling his chair back and picking up his mug, “I take it you don’t need any contraception.”  
  
I just shake my head, beyond shock now, and finish my tea. Molly comes over and pinches a biscuit. It is a strangely peaceful moment in what has been an afternoon filled with madness so far. It doesn’t last long. As soon as Sherlock has finished his tea he jumps up and gets on his coat.  
  
“Time to go,” he says, throwing me my jacket.  
  
Molly gives me an anxious look, and quietly says, “Good luck.”  
  
I don’t know what to say back, so I just say, “Thank you for the tea.”  
  
Sherlock has already gone out of the door, not even bothering to say goodbye to Molly. I run after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is no longer a matter of science, Adriane,” Sherlock says calmly, “I wouldn’t need to ask if it was. It is a matter of life and death.” Quite apart from the reminder that I should expect to be available for scientific experiment without question, there is no doubt that what he is asking of me is a mad, dangerous, indeed perilous thing. It could end badly in any number of unimaginable ways. I am wondering why I came back here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
> 
> This fic is a sequel to Control

John is already back at the flat when we return. He points to the back of one of the chairs, and says to me, “I got you some clothes.” Then he looks at Sherlock. “Not your usual punctual self, Sherlock. You’ve been ages.”  
  
“We had to stop for tea and biscuits with Molly Hooper,” Sherlock says, matter-of-factly, “Adriane was threatening to faint.” John gives him a little lop-sided smile. Then he says, “I got what you asked for.” Sherlock nods.  
  
I have a look at the clothes that John has picked for me. Sherlock was right, he has good taste. There is a black dress, short but not too short, a dark blue bolero jacket and black tights. He has also picked me a necklace and earrings to go with it. I look at him and say, “Thank you. That’s lovely.”  
  
He gives me a big grin.“You’re welcome.” I can see why Sherlock likes to share his space with him. They balance each other perfectly.   
  
While I get changed in the bathroom John orders a takeaway. Sherlock has once again taken up his position in front of the paper-covered wall and is studying it, deep in thought. He doesn’t eat when the food arrives, but I find that I’m hungry now, even though I am still very nervous.  
  
John and I do the meal justice although we have to eat it on our laps for lack of space on the kitchen table. He is making a valiant effort at polite conversation, and we manage to talk about my new job, and his work at the surgery, and London. All I really  
want to ask him is what it is like to live with Sherlock, whether he has got used to the madness that is surrounding him, whether this is a normal existence to him.   
  
I don’t know how he can even look me in the eye knowing what I am about to put myself up for, but then again I don’t know what else these two have gone through. I also remember the header on his blog, retired army doctor, recently returned from Afghanistan.   
  
I realise I know nothing at all about him or what he has experienced. For all I know, this is just all in a day’s – or night’s – work. I find myself doing more listening than talking, but he is funny and manages to keep the conversation going nevertheless. Sherlock remains quiet and motionless.  
  
John tidies away when we are finished, refusing to let me help. “You don’t want to spoil your new dress”, he says. The morbid thought that it is likely to be entirely spoilt by the end of the night crosses my mind, but I say nothing and stay on the sofa.  
  
Sherlock seems to have come to some kind of conclusion, as he appears to suddenly wake up from his thoughts. He walks over to his chair, giving my new outfit the once-over as he passes. I take his lack of comment as approval.   
  
Instead of sitting down, he picks up his violin and stands by the window, looking out. Then he starts to play and the music fills the apartment. I don’t recognise the piece but it’s beautiful, ethereal, and I just sit and listen and watch him, and for the moment I have no wish to be anywhere else.  
  
How long he plays for I don’t know, but when he finishes I feel like I am being dragged out of a dream. John is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, equally glazed look on his face, and I understand that it isn’t just me who is affected.  
  
Sherlock turns round and puts the instrument down. “Time to go,” he says. He looks at me, then gives me a slight frown. “You  
might want to tidy that up,” he says, pointing to my face. I put my hand to my cheek and it comes up wet. I didn’t even know I’d been crying.  
  
They are both ready to go when I come out of the bathroom. I try to put on a brave face, but I don’t think it’s very convincing. John looks worried. Sherlock just looks. When I have put on my coat we go downstairs and outside, where Sherlock hails a cab.   
  
John gives him a nod as we are about to get in. “I’ll see you there, then.”   
  
I didn’t realise they had arranged to split up. In fact, I realise I don’t know much about the plan at all. John looks across to me and says, “Good luck, Adri.”  
  
I can’t speak for nerves now, so I just look at him and give him a nervous smile and hope I don't look too wretched. Sherlock opens the cab door and lets me get in. The gesture is old-fashioned and gallant and makes me smile a little as I sit down.   
  
I am expecting this to be another silent taxi ride, but it turns out differently. As the cab drives off, he turns and looks at me, studying me a little. I am getting used to this, but still find it unnerving.  
  
Suddenly, he says, “You’re so emotional. How do you deal with your life?”  
  
It would be a strange question for anyone else to ask, and I need to think about the answer a moment. It’s obvious he’s being serious, not flippant. It’s hard to think through my nerves but at least it’s a distraction. The thought crosses my mind that he’s doing this on purpose, but I go with it, grateful for anything that can take my mind off what we’re doing.  
  
“I find if I just throw it out and get my feelings off my chest I can deal with pretty much anything,” I say in the end. “It doesn’t stop me being good at what I do. Actually, I think it helps. Bottling it up would drive me mad.”  
  
He considers this for a moment, then just says, “Hm.”  
  
I look at him, studying him for a change. He’s looking calm, relaxed, contained. I envy him his level of self-control and composure. My eyes are drawn to his hands, left one on the door handle, right one in his lap.   
  
I take his right hand, not really thinking about what I’m doing, and study his long fingers. He’s humouring me as he doesn’t pull away. Beautiful hands, I think. I’ve always had a thing about hands. I kiss his fingertips and let his hand go.  
  
He looks at me, a little surprised I think, but doesn’t say anything for a while. Then he says, almost gently, “Adri.” He pauses, looking for words, the right words. “When this is all over, I want you to go and look for someone. Someone who will look after you. I can’t give you what you need.”  
  
As rejections go, it’s one of the gentlest I’ve had. I look at him, and say, “It’s not that simple. I’m much the same as Molly Hooper.”  
  
He looks blankly at me, and says, “What about Molly?”  
  
I find it hard to believe that somebody with a mind like his could have such an enormous blind spot. I just say, “Sherlock, she’d do anything for you. She would have done this.” I gesture at the taxi, at the mad thing we are doing. He stares at me for a while, then looks away.  
  
“I know.”  
  
The taxi stops and we get out. Sherlock pays the driver while I try and work our where we are. As the cab drives off it goes very quiet all of a sudden, and I wonder what time it is.   
  
We are in a deserted street near a local park, in an area of  
London that I don’t recognise. Sherlock is looking around to make sure we are not being observed. When he is satisfied, he turns to me.  
  
“Right,” he says, quietly. “We are going to walk down the road towards the park in a moment. I am going to upset you, and walk away. You will stay in or near the park, and then we’ll just see what happens.”   
  
I must be looking worried, as he raises an eyebrow. “I can’t act,” I say.   
  
“Don’t worry,” he replies, “I’ll make sure you won’t need to.”   
  
If that was supposed to reassure me, it didn’t work. Sherlock sighs. “Listen, I am going to say some hurtful things. You are not to take them personally.”   
  
I think I understand what he is trying to say, and I can see the warped logic in it. I nod. “OK, let’s get on with it.”   
  
I don’t feel half as certain as I am trying to sound. I guess to Sherlock’s mind this doesn’t matter much – after all, these people are preying on the vulnerable, and at the moment I’m doing a pretty good lost impression even without anyone upsetting me.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
As we are getting near the park, he turns to me, looking visibly upset.“How can you do that to me, you… you… bitch!” he shouts, looking livid, and it is a truly frightening sight. What comes next takes me by surprise: he slaps me hard across the cheek with the back of his hand, then pushes me away. I stumble backwards and trip over. “Stay away from me!” he shouts as he storms off.  
  
He was right. I have no need to act upset. Tears are stinging in my eyes, and I am clasping my cheek with my hand. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. I have scraped my other hand across the path as I was falling and that hurts, too. His words are ringing in my ears and I am trying to forget the bitch.   
  
He couldn’t have picked a worse word or one that triggers worse memories, and I suspect that he was fully aware of this. I manage to get up, but I’m shaking and a bit disorientated. Around the corner in the park I can see a bench and I make for it. I’m glad to sit down a moment while I try to get my thoughts in order.   
  
I am more upset than I thought I would be and it is partly because I can’t believe what Sherlock has just done, how easy he seems to find it to manipulate and use me without any regard for my feelings. I’m angry now, but I am also wondering if this is not exactly how he wants me to feel, and I am even more upset because of it.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
I stay on the bench for a while, not knowing what to do next. I haven’t been paying much attention to where I am while I’ve been stewing, and I only belatedly become aware that somebody is coming towards me. It’s a man, and he’s making straight for the bench I’m sitting on.   
  
He sits down next to me and says, “Hello, love.”   
  
I look at him. He has a face that sets alarm bells ringing everywhere, especially the way he is looking at me. I can’t see much more of him as his head is covered with a hood and it is very dark.   
  
I make to move away, but he has quickly put his arm around me, his hand slipping under my jacket. There is no mistaking the point of a knife somewhere near my kidney region. “I don’t think so,” he says. “Why don’t you come with me quietly love, before you have an accident in a dark park.”   
  
So that’s how it’s done, I think. It’s almost too easy. He pulls me  
up, but instead of walking back out of the park the way I came in, he takes me all the way to the other side.   
  
There’s a side street, and an unmarked car with a driver. There is nobody about and he forces me into the back seat easily, sitting down next to me, quickly moving the knife near my lower back again.   
  
“Now you’re going to sit there nicely, and we’re going to take a little drive, and you’re not going to attract any attention,” he says. The man behind the wheel starts the car and drives off.   
  
It’s not a short drive at all, and I’m wondering where we are going to end up. If the police were hoping to find these people in the Soho area they were completely wrong. I take note of the minutes flicking by on the dashboard clock, and it is close to an hour before we finally stop.   
  
The car pulls to a halt by the side of a ramshackle old house that feels like it’s in the middle of nowhere. We are in the outskirts of London by the looks of it, but other than that I have very little idea. For the last twenty minutes we have been driving through residential areas, and there have been no signposts.   
  
The man with the knife takes hold of my arm and drags me out of the car. He quickly walks me over to the door, which is opened by the driver, and pushes me inside. I am standing in a dirty hallway, but I don’t have much time to look around.   
  
He keeps going, through the next door which leads to the living room. There are three other men in there watching television. Empty beer cans litter the room and the place stinks.  
  
They switch off the television as we come in, and the man closest to me gets up off the sofa and walks over. He’s about my height, wiry, tanned and dirty.   
  
He looks me over with unmasked greed. The other four men are all watching him, and I take it he is their leader.  
  
“What have we here?” he says, touching my face. “Somebody hurt you, love? Wasn’t him, was it?” he points to the man who brought me in. The other men laugh.  
  
“Nah,” the hoody says. “Boyfriend did that for me.”The wiry man grins, “Nice.” He’s looking me up and down. Then he says, “Let’s have a look at this one. Strip her, Jake.”  
  
The hoody walks to the front of me and roughly takes off my coat and the jacket. Then he goes around the back, zips open the dress and pulls it down, tights and all. “Don’t try anything love, you’ll only regret it later,” he says as he goes about his business, and makes me step out of the pile of clothes.  
  
“There you go, boss.”   
  
The wiry man looks me over, walking around me. “Looks all right,” he says. “Not much in the way of tits though.” Then he walks over to a table in the corner and picks up what looks like the metal detectors they use at airports.   
  
“Just checking you over love, to make sure you’re not hiding anything.”   
  
I am hoping and praying that the thing will not be sensitive enough to pick up the microchip. He passes the detector over my body. When he gets to my throat it beeps.  
  
“Ooh, looks like somebody was trying to be clever,” he says with a grin. I close my eyes and think, shit.   
  
He puts his face close to my neck. I can smell him, he stinks. It doesn’t take him long to spot the area where Sherlock injected the chip only this afternoon.   
  
He looks at me and says, “We’re not stupid love, we know the police are after us. It would be easy enough for them to plant somebody. This thing,” he waves the detector at me, “Specially designed to pick up one of them.”  
  
He quickly scans my clothes to make sure there’s nothing else there. Then he goes over to the hoody and says, “Jake, give me your knife.”  
  
I am absolutely terrified, and it must be showing. The guy seems to be enjoying himself immensely. He comes over and holds the knife to my throat.   
  
“Now, I could just do this.” He pushes a little bit. I can feel the knife break the skin and a little blood trickling down my throat. I am too scared to scream, I just gasp. He takes the knife away, and says, “But then I’d be stuck with a body I couldn’t trade. So, I’ll do this instead.”  
  
With his left hand, he feels around the skin at my collar bone. When he finds what he is looking for, he holds the skin between his thumb and forefinger and slices through with the knife. It hurts, and I finally scream.   
  
When I look at him, he is holding the chip between his fingers.“That’s easily dealt with,” he says, and he drops the thing on the floor, crushing it with his foot.   
  
My legs give way and I sink to the floor, thinking nothing anymore. He just looks at me in disdain, gives me a kick, and says, “Get dressed. We’re going.”  
  
I manage to get dressed. The cut on my collar bone is bleeding everywhere but I’ve gone numb, and my only thought is Sherlock and John will not be able to find me.   
  
The other men have gone somewhere else in the house, and return with a group of young women. I recognise them all from the photographs at Baker Street, but only just. They are looking dishevelled, dirty, and terrified. I realise I probably look the same by now.   
  
The men tie our hands behind our backs then walk us all to the back of the house where there is an old Transit van parked. The leader of the group is overseeing the operation, and as I walk past him he pulls me aside.   
  
“Don’t think for a moment that I’m finished with you yet,” he says, face far too close to mine. I give a terrified whimper and he grins before pushing me towards the van.   
  
We are bundled into the back and before we are driven off they tie our feet too. Most of the girls sit down as well as they can. One of them – I think her name is Suzanne – looks barely conscious, and she just lies down on the dirty floor of the van.   
  
There is nothing to hold on to, and no way to hold onto anything if there were. We are all shaken and bumped about as the van drives away. A couple of the women are crying, but I am still in shock with the thought that with every mile we drive my chances of being traced are becoming smaller, and with the fear of what they are going to do to me.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
The ride becomes less bumpy after a while and I guess we must be on the motorway. Some of the girls are dozing off and it makes me wonder what they have gone through to be able to sleep in this place. I’m wide awake, the adrenalin still pumping, the cuts on my throat and neck burning.   
  
I try to judge how far we have driven, but with no visual point of reference it is almost impossible. I think about saying something to the girl next to me, but she is refusing to make eye contact.   
  
In the end I just stare at the floor and try to think of something that makes me feel better. Sherlock playing the violin, it is an easy image to draw up and I can still hear the music in my head if I concentrate hard enough. It is a memory I am grateful for, and I think this must be why he gave it to me. Clever man, I  
think, but not clever enough.  
  
I don’t know how long we are in the van for, but it must have been at least an hour when we finally stop. Enough time to get to the coast, I think. What was it Sherlock said? Out of the country in a matter of days, and never heard from again. I push the thought away.   
  
The back door of the van opens, and the men drag us out. It’s still dark outside, and I can’t make out much. We seem to be in the middle of nowhere, again. There are no streetlights anywhere around and the only light I can see is coming from what looks like an old farmhouse nearby.   
  
The men cut the ropes at our ankles and make us walk to the house. The wiry man is standing in the hallway, waiting. “Take them down to the cellar,” he says, and then, pointing at me, "Leave that one down here.”  
  
They push me into the living room and I find somewhere to sit. One of the men stays with me while the others go about their business. I look around, trying to distract myself from being scared senseless.   
  
This place looks a little more lived-in than the London house. It is furnished with more than just a couple of sofas and looks relatively tidy. There are two doors out of the living room, the one I came in from, and one at the back. Other than that there’s nothing much to see.  
  
After a while, the men start coming into the living room. They are in good spirits, and one of them hands out beers. I notice that their leader doesn’t drink. He taps one of them on the shoulder and says, “Outside, Tony. I need someone to keep watch.”  
  
The man called Tony grumbles, but complies. The leader now comes over to me and pulls me up off my chair. “Never said you could sit down,” he says. Then he roughly takes my chin in his hand and forces me to look at him. “Now then, let’s think about a fitting punishment for endangering our little operation.”  
  
A couple of the other men snigger. He seems to think about it for a moment, then says, “Oh, I know. Get the horse, Jake.”  
  
The hoody gets up with a grin on his face, and disappears through the back door. He comes back out with something that looks like piece of gym equipment, but lower. It’s got four legs with rings near the floor, and a small padded area level with my waist. He's also carrying a length of rope slung over his shoulder.   
  
I’ve seen one of these things before, I know what it’s for. The wiry man lets go of my face. “Hold on a moment,” he says and walks to the back himself, returning with a small bundle. He shows it to me and says, grinning, “I thought it was appropriate, seeing as we are going to take a little boat trip later.”  
  
It’s a leather cat, with knotted strands. I can’t even look at the thing. He gives the horse a tremendous thwack and I can see the marks it leaves in the padded top, the pockmarks where the knots went. I feel sick.   
  
The man gives me another grin and turns to the hoody, saying, “Strip her and tie her down, Jake. Let’s have some fun.”

  
\--ooOoo--

  
The hoody undoes the ropes at my wrists and strips me as before, but this time he takes everything off. Then he pushes me face first onto the horse, ties my wrists and ankles to the four legs of the thing and stands back to admire his handiwork.   
  
“I do like ‘em like that, boss,” he says. “You get full access that way.”  
  
The wiry man replies, “I know you do. You’ll get your chance yet.” I am barely breathing, my whole body frozen with panic. I know what is going to happen, that there is no way out, and still I am hoping for some kind of miracle. All the men sit down on the sofas to watch their boss at work. No miracle happens.  
  
The wiry man walks over to where my face is, and shows me the cat once more. It is a cruel thing, designed to do damage. “I think we’ll start with twelve,” he says, “we can always come back to it later if we feel like it.”  
  
He hasn’t even touched me and I have already got the shakes, adrenalin whizzing through my system. My head is spinning with sheer panic and I find myself thinking that it would be better if I could just faint.   
  
He walks to the side of me and brings down the cat. I can hear it before I can feel it, but then the pain suddenly rips through me. I scream in agony. “Ah yes, scream all you want love, nobody to hear you here anyway. And we don’t mind a bit of screaming, do we, boys?”   
  
The men cheer; they are getting into this. I feel sicker. He brings the cat down again, across the cuts he has already made. The pain is even worse than before and I scream again, tears flowing freely down my face.   
  
There is no point in begging him to stop, and even in my current state I won’t give him the satisfaction. He carries on, third lash across the first two, cutting me open. Then he walks over to the other side of me, and delivers three lashes on that side.   
  
The men are counting along. I am hoarse from screaming. The man comes over to my face again, and shows me the cat. There’s blood on it.   
  
“Had enough yet?” he asks. I do not say anything but just close my eyes. He moves back to the side he started on, and lashes down. “Seven,” chant the men on the sofa, as I scream once more.   
  
The pain as the cuts go across each other is unbearable, and I find myself just repeating, “no, no, no, no,” over and over again, until he hits me once more and I scream again. He makes short work of the last four lashes, raining them down in quick succession as I scream, and leaving me a sobbing mess.   
  
“Bored with that now, let’s do something else,” he says. He’s insane, I think. I know what is coming next, I have seen the bulge in his trousers as he was walking around me.  
  
He has walked behind me and I can hear the sound of his zip, the soft thud as his trousers hit the floor. This, at least, is something I can deal with better. I have had to do this too often before.   
  
As he thrusts himself into me, I retreat to that calm space in my head, where no-one can touch me. I can do this, I tell myself, disconnected from my body, pretending this is happening to someone else. Sherlock, violin. The image brings tears to my eyes.  
  
Suddenly, pain, and I am brought back into focus, back into that horrid room. “Oh stay with us, love,” he pants, and he brings the cat down again. I scream once more, and struggle against the ropes, against him, as he pumps faster and deeper. He laughs, then stops, and withdraws.   
  
“Your turn, Shorty,” he says jovially, walking to the front of me. He grabs hold of my hair as the one of the other men walks over. This one is only wearing jeans and a vest.   
  
He gives me a quick leering grin, then drops his trousers and flaunts himself in my face. He stinks. Then he walks around and puts his fingers inside me. “Oh I like this one, boss,” he says. “She’s hot.”   
  
The leader pulls my head up so I look at him, and brings his face close to mine. “Now Shorty here,” he says, “doesn’t last very  
long. But he’ll make sure you’re nice and wet for the rest of them.”   
  
The man behind me withdraws his hand and then enters me, thrusting deeply and quickly. There is no skill to what he does, no control, and he is grunting and panting as he goes about it.  
  
The gang leader still has his face close to mine, watching me. I try to look away, but he just says, “Look at me. I want to see your face when he comes,” his grip on my hair tightening. The rhythm of the man behind me is increasing, and as he comes he grabs hold of the flesh of my back, nails digging in deep.   
  
The pain as he digs into the cuts is unbearable, and I scream again, and I can feel him come inside me, and the leering face in front of me says, “See, I knew he was going to do that,” and then everything goes black.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
I don’t know how long I have been unconscious, but it can’t be very long. Somebody is splashing cold water on my face.  “Oi, wake up, not finished yet,” comes the voice from the gang leader.  
  
I open my eyes. My back is on fire, the inside of my legs is wet and I feel totally disgusting. “Jake’s turn now,” the wiry man says, “you’ll like him.”   
  
I can feel someone else behind me and figure that must be the hoody. He enters me, slowly. He is longer than the other two, and I gasp as he suddenly thrusts forwards. At the same moment, the wiry man pushes himself into my mouth.   
  
I gag, but he keeps a firm hold of my hair, forcing me down on him. “Works a treat every time,” he quips, and the two men on the sofa laugh.   
  
The hoody behind me starts pumping me deeply, and I am closing my eyes, tears streaming down my face with humiliation as the man in front of me does the same. Time seems to stretch into eternity in this nightmare, every second lasting hours, and there is nothing I can do to end it.   
  



	3. Chapter 3

Suddenly, they both stop and withdraw. I open my eyes, wondering what horror is next, and realise that something has changed in the room. I look to the floor and recognise the shoes before I recognise the voice. Yves Saint Laurent. The voice is soft, icy, and deadly.  
  
“Step away from her. Unless, of course, you would like me to end your miserable existence here and now.” There is a click that can only be the cocking of a gun. Behind me there are faint sounds of a struggle, and I can feel the hoody moving away.   
  
I can’t see what is going on in front of me from the position I’m in, but now the gang leader is moving slowly backwards until he is fully in my field of view. Sherlock is standing behind him, twisting his arm behind his back, gun to his head.   
  
He briefly makes eye contact, and says, “Sorry we’re late, Adriane, we had a bit of a problem with reception.” Then he turns his attention back to the wiry man, looking deadly serious once more. “Would you like me to shoot him?”   
  
It is clear he is not joking. I shake my head, I don’t want to be an accessory to cold-blooded murder, regardless of how much this man deserves to die. Sherlock just says, “Shame.”   
  
He holds my gaze with a look of grim satisfaction as he quickly pulls the man’s arm upwards. There is a loud crack, and the man screams and doubles up. As he folds over, Sherlock’s knee connects sharply with his teeth, and as the momentum of the movement brings the man back up again he hits him in the neck with both elbows. It is all done in one fluid movement, and I cannot help but admire his skill.   
  
The man collapses on the floor, out cold. Sherlock gives him a look of absolute disgust, then looks across me to where I know John must be and gives him a nod. There is a groan and a thud as Jake falls to the floor behind me. I wonder what John did to him.  
  
The two men on the sofa haven’t moved. Sherlock now turns his attention to them, and he asks me, “Did they do anything to you?”  
  
I shake my head. I’ve seen enough violence for one day. Sherlock gives me an odd look. He knows I’m lying, I think. Then he points his gun at them and says, “Gentlemen, your hands, please.”   
  
They snap out of their stupor and quickly raise their hands, looking stunned. At that moment the back door opens, and a handful of police people rush in. “In the cellar, Detective Inspector, go and rescue them,” Sherlock says, still pointing his gun at the men on the sofa.   
  
The silver-haired man at the front briefly surveys the room, the bodies on the floor, and looks at me with some shock. Then they all file through the room and out the other door.   
  
Sherlock turns to John, and says, “Sort them out for me please, John.” I can finally see John as he moves into view, carrying a handful of tie-wraps. He makes quick work of tying the men’s hands behind their backs, finishing off by tying them to each other.   
  
As soon as he is done, Sherlock lowers the gun and he’s over to me, kneeling on the floor, untying the ropes. “Are you all right?” He sounds genuinely concerned.   
  
I can’t really look at him, I just shake my head, no. I am crying again, with relief this time, and shock, releasing the fear of the last few hours with great sobs.   
  
“It’s OK,” he says, “you’re going to be OK.”   
  
John is over now, untying my legs, and they help me stand up. Sherlock puts his coat across my shoulders, and it’s heavy and warm and I don’t care that it is hurting my back. I can’t really stand for shaking, and John quickly pulls up a chair for me to collapse on.   
  
I try to calm myself down, but it’s not working and I feel near-hysterical. I can see John looking at me, face full of concern. Sherlock kneels down again and takes both my hands. “Adriane, it’s OK. Calm down,”   
  
I try to take a deep breath, to get some control back. I focus on his hands, long fingers, and am finally able to catch my breath, one deep breath, calm, then another. “I thought you had lost me,” I finally manage to say.  
  
It’s quiet for a moment. Sherlock has let go of my hands, and is examining the cuts on my neck and throat, barely touching. “You’ll have to look at those, John,” he says.  
  
“That’s not the worst of it,” John answers, “you haven’t seen her back properly.”  
  
Sherlock just says, “Hm,” and stands up. “We need to go."  
  
I’d forgotten about the men on the floor, but Jake is stirring. John goes over and ties his hands and feet, then drags him to the sofa. The gang leader is still unconscious, one of his arms bent at a funny angle.   
  
The door opens, and the Detective Inspector comes in.“Thanks for the tip-off, Sherlock,” he says, “we’ve found them all. Or I thought we had, until I saw this one,” he points at me. “Who’s she?”  
  
Sherlock looks at him only a brief moment before replying. “She volunteered.” His face is dead-pan.   
  
The other man stares at him in disbelief. “What?”  
  
“She volunteered,” Sherlock repeats. “Wanted to help out.” He’s quite cheerful about it.   
  
The Detective Inspector now looks at me. “Is he serious?”   
  
I nod. He looks back at Sherlock, incredulous. “Well, she’d better come with us. We’ve got a couple of ambulances around the back, she needs first aid.”   
  
“She’s coming with us, Lestrade,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t sound like he’s prepared to argue about it. “John will look after her, he’s a doctor.”  
  
Lestrade looks at John, who nods, then at me. I nod, too. I just want to stay with them, go back to Baker Street, and forget all this.  
  
“All right,” Lestrade says in the end. “But I want you all in for questioning tomorrow morning.”  
  
“Afternoon,” Sherlock says.   
  
The Detective Inspector gives him an exasperated look, and then says, “Fine, suit yourself. I’ll have plenty of paperwork to be getting on with anyway.”   
  
He has a look around the room and points to the man on the floor. “What happened to him?”   
  
“Seems to have broken his arm,” Sherlock says, all innocence. I can‘t help but smile a little.   
  
Lestrade just looks at him suspiciously and says, “Yes, I can see that.” Then he radios for someone to take the men away and heads off.   
  
When he has gone, John has a look at my neck and throat and puts a bit of tape over the cut at my collar bone.“That will need stitching,” he says, “but it will be OK for a little while like that.”  
  
I ask, “What happened to the guard at the door?”  
  
“He had a little accident,” Sherlock answers with a satisfied smile. I decide it’s probably better not to ask any further. Instead I say, “Where are we?”  
  
“Norfolk,” he says, “about to go home.”

  
\--ooOoo--

  
I take the hint and try to get up to get ready. Legs don’t work, and I fall forward onto the floor.   
  
“Whoa, steady,” John shouts, and helps me to sit up. I give him an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”   
  
He puts my arm around his shoulder and pulls me back up onto the chair. “Let’s see if we can get you dressed,” he says. He takes the coat off me, and has a very quick look at my back.   
  
“The quicker we can clean this up the better,” he says. “Maybe we should get you into an ambulance after all.”  
  
I shake my head, and say, “No. I want to go with you.”  
  
I look over to Sherlock. He's standing right in front of the man they called Shorty, looking very calm, just staring down on him. The man is looking back up at him, absolutely terrified. I'm wondering what he is driving at.  
  
Sherlock holds the silence and his stare just a little too long while Shorty is trying to sink further into the sofa, cringing. John has turned to look as well now and nobody is saying a word.   
  
Just as I am beginning to wonder if he is going to move at all, Sherlock kneels down at the prostrate figure of Jake on the floor, has a feel in his pockets and comes up with Jake’s knife. He gives it a little twirl in mid-air while looking at the man on the sofa.   
  
The man called Shorty has stopped breathing and looks as if his eyes are about to pop out of their sockets as Sherlock approaches him again slowly, holding the knife lightly in his hand. The man starts to whimper; he is visibly shaking.   
  
Beside me, John says, quietly, “Sherlock…”  
  
Suddenly, Sherlock bends down to Shorty and puts the knife very close to the man’s throat. The man screams. Sherlock very calmly moves the knife a little to the left, and cuts through the top of the man’s vest on his shoulder, all the while holding his gaze. Then he does the same on the other side, snip.  
  
The man looks utterly confused, petrified. Sherlock brings the knife very close to his throat again, tracing the tip all the way down to his chest, not putting on enough pressure to break the skin but enough to frighten the life out of him. Finally he cuts the hem of the man’s vest at his chest, rips the vest down the centre, and cuts the bottom hem downwards, towards the man’s groin.  
  
Shorty is beginning to beg in his whimpering. Sherlock pulls his vest off and gives him a look of utter disdain before turning around to John and me. He catches my eye with a wicked little smile. “Something to clean yourself up with, Adriane. Sorry it’s not more hygienic.”  
  
He passes me the vest. Shorty looks like he’s peed himself. John breathes a sigh of relief. “Jesus, Sherlock.”  
  
They help me get dressed as well as I can. My back is too sore to close the dress, but with the jacket over I look at least slightly presentable. John takes my arm, helping me stand up, and says, “OK, let’s go.”  
  
Sherlock holds open the door and we slowly make our way outside, me leaning heavily on John, Sherlock following behind. The driveway seems to be covered in police and emergency vehicles. I'm trying my best to look innocuous.  
  
“Can you stand?” John asks. I nod, I think my legs are OK now. He lets go of me carefully, and says, “I’ll get the car.”  
  
As he walks off I can feel my legs go again, but Sherlock is quick. Before I know it he has grabbed hold of my upper arms from behind, holding me steady. "Not the best place to draw attention to yourself," he says. "Unless you want to go home with the ambulance crew after all.” 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
He holds onto me until John drives up with the car, then helps me get into the back.  I sit down gingerly. “There’s painkillers and a drink in the bag,” John says, pointing to a supermarket bag on the seat next to me. I help myself. I hadn’t realised how thirsty I was.   
  
We head off, Sherlock in the front, John driving, me trying to get as comfortable as possible with a back that feels like it’s been cut to shreds. The relief of getting away from that place is immense, and I can feel all the emotion start to wash over me once more. I really don’t want to end up a sobbing mess again, so I take some deep breaths, and ask, “How did you find me?”  
  
Sherlock says nothing for a moment, just smiles. Then he looks at me and says, “Technically we never really lost you. We knew exactly where you were until you left the house in London. In fact, we were watching when you were driven away. And given the direction of travel of the van, the high likelihood of you being brought to this area of the coast, the number of empty farm properties in the area…”  
  
He looks across at John, who says, with a suppressed smile, “As well as the fact that we followed the van from a distance,” To which Sherlock replies, “All helped by us bugging it in the first place, it wasn't that hard in the end.”  
  
He takes another control box out of his pocket and flips it in the air, grinning, then looks across to me again, and finishes, “We knew where you were. It was waiting for police backup that took the time.”  
  
He looks serious again. “I am sorry about what they did to you, Adriane. We didn’t know how many of them there were in the house. We entered as soon as we knew the police were in the area. And I was hoping that their headquarters might contain more information, which is why we had to let them take you there.”  
  
I nod, letting it all sink in, then I just say, “Thank you.” I’m not sure why I say it, I guess for him being honest, and for the apology. I can see John shake his head slightly and I know what he thinks, he should be thanking you, not the other way round. I don’t care at the moment, I feel safe, and a great wave of tiredness is washing over me and I just sit back and let it take me.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
When I wake up I can’t quite work out where I am. I’m lying down with my head in someone’s lap in what looks like a London cab. It’s light outside.   
  
I look up and John Watson smiles down, and says, “Good morning, sunshine.”  
  
I get up, slightly embarrassed, and manage, “What? How?” John is grinning. “We transferred you to the cab when we dropped the hire car off. You did wake up.”   
  
“A bit,” Sherlock says dryly. He’s sitting on the other side, looking out of the window. I honestly can’t remember this happening. It must have taken some doing, and the mental image makes me giggle. “I’m surprised you weren’t stopped by the police."   
  
John is giggling as well and Sherlock can’t suppress a grin. The cab draws up in front of the flat, and we get out. It appears the sleep has done me some good as my legs are working again, although I dread to think what my back looks like.   
  
“Right,” John says to me as we get in the flat, “I want you in the bath, and then I’ll have a look at those cuts.” I make to take my jacket off, but the blood has stuck the thing to my back and after everything that has gone on tonight the pain is just too much. I can’t do it anymore, and I end up just standing there, tears welling up again.  
  
John walks over. “Do you want me to do that?” I nod, and close my eyes, and try to hold back the tears as he carefully peels off the jacket. Sherlock is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, but he comes over when the jacket is off and looks at my back. I realise that he hasn’t seen it yet.   
  
I can feel his fingers occasionally touching my skin, but he is being very gentle. He doesn’t say anything at all and when he is finished he walks to the window, his face serious. “Come on, Adri, get in the bath,” John says.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
The hot water is soothing and even though it is turning an alarming shade of pink I enjoy the bath. I am drifting off, finally relaxing, when the door opens and Sherlock comes in.   
  
I feel acutely exposed and self-conscious, but he’s not really looking at me. He sits down on the toilet lid, looking entirely at home, and I decide just to go with it. It strikes me that in some ways he is like a child, unaware of social convention. There is obviously something on his mind and the fact that I am naked in his bath is irrelevant.  
  
“That man on the sofa raped you,” he says, “but you told me he didn’t touch you. Why did you lie to me? You had no need to protect him.”   
  
He is looking at me for an answer. I sit up and look back at him, thinking about it. “Sherlock,” I say, finally, “I wasn’t protecting him. I was trying to protect you, from yourself. And me, you were frightening me. I didn’t want any more violence.”   
  
He thinks about this for a moment. Then he says, “I could have given you revenge.”   
  
“I got all the revenge I needed from the look on his face when you took off his vest,” I say. He flashes me one of his rare grins. Then he gets serious again. “I will need to do some observations on your back before John can treat you,” he says, getting up.   
  
I look at him blankly. “It’s not an injury I’ve seen before,” he says, “I’d like to take some notes.” As an afterthought, he adds, “If you don’t mind.” Does he ever switch off, I think, but I say OK anyway. I’m not sure what John will say, though.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
When I get out I dry myself as best as possible and put on a bathrobe that’s hanging on the inside of the door. I’m not sure whose it is, but I guess it’s Sherlock’s as the sleeves are too long for me.   
  
I look at my face in the mirror and it’s a mess. My cheek where he has slapped me has bruised up quite a bit, the cuts at my throat look red and angry and I look like I haven’t slept for a week. I wonder how long it will all take to heal up.  
  
When I get back into the lounge Sherlock is busy getting some things together and he just points to his bedroom. “Go and lie down.” From the sofa John is looking at him, confused.   
  
“Sorry, Sherlock, what are you doing? I need to treat her.”   
  
“I’m taking some notes,” Sherlock says, but when he notices John’s stony silence he adds, “Ten minutes, John. She says it’s OK.”   
  
John looks over to me and I just shrug. Ten minutes is not going to make a difference, I think. I feel loads better for having a bath, anyway.  
  
To my surprise there is a pile of my own clothes and underwear in the bedroom. From my flat, again. Sherlock appears in the doorway, and says, “We got you some clothes on the way. I used your key this time, though.”  
  
I give him a smile, and say thank you. I put on some pants and take off the dressing gown, lie down on the bed face first, and rest my head on my hands. I don’t mind this, in fact I find him studying me strangely comforting.   
  
Sherlock is using his magnifying glass and takes photographs and notes. He spends quite a bit of time on the place where Shorty dug in his nails. When he finally moves away I can tell he is angry, but there is something else I can’t place.  
  
“What can you see?” I ask, just for something to say.  
  
He puts down the pen and the magnifying glass and sits down on the bed next to me. He points to my back, and says, “Fourteen lashes with a leather cat o’ nine tails with knotted strands, four knots to each strand, one strand slightly shorter than the other eight. Delivered by a tall and above-average strength male. First three on this side," He touches my left side carefully, “then three on the other. They were spaced out very carefully. Another two like that back here,” His fingers on my skin again, “and then four in very quick succession, one here, three the other side.”  
  
He frowns a moment. "Then later, two more, aimed from behind, over those, by the same man. After that, a short, badly groomed middle-aged male dug his nails in from behind, here.” He touches the skin around the scratches, very gently. “ It will scar, I’m afraid, especially in the places where two knots overlapped.”  
  
I can’t help it, all the emotion from the night just overwhelms me. Lack of sleep doesn’t help, and I can feel the tears welling up. Sherlock looks across to me. “Oh.”   
  
I sit up and all I can think is that I need a hug, some comfort, something, anything. I reach my hand out to him and say, “Hold me, please.”  
  
I don’t know how he will react, but he puts his arms around me, awkwardly, and I bury my face in his shirt and just let the tears go, let it all out. He relaxes into the hug a little after a moment, and rests his cheek on my hair.   
  
A few moments later I can hear John come into the room.“Sherlock, are you finished – Oh.”  
  
Sherlock lifts his head, and says, “John?...” He sounds unsure.  
  
John replies, “You’re doing fine.” There is a smile in his voice.  
  
We stay like that for a while, until I have calmed down. I don’t want Sherlock to let go, I feel safe here, but he unwraps his arms and gently sits me up. Then he looks at me for a moment and kisses me on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Adriane,” he says, getting up. I’m not sure what he’s just said sorry for.   
  
He walks out of the room, and shortly after John comes in, medical bag in hand. “Are you OK?” he asks as he comes in. I say yes, just sore. If he doesn't believe me he doesn't show it.  
  
John has a look at the cuts on my throat first, and says, “Well, they’re clean. But that one needs stitching.” He points to where the microchip came out. “I’ll give you a local.”   
  
I briefly think about protesting, more syringes, but in the end I just give in and let him do his job. He’s quick and professional and I can tell he has done this a hundred times before. I wonder what Afghanistan was like.   
  
When he has finished he gets me to lie down and looks at my back again. “All this needs is a lot of antiseptic a couple of times a day,” he says. “But it will take a few days to heal up. You’ll need to stay here for a while. It’s not really something you want to show to anyone else I guess.”   
  
I hadn’t thought about that, but the prospect of spending a little more time at Baker Street is comforting. I am not looking forward to returning to my flat.  
  
He treats my back, very gently, and I find a baggy t-shirt and some easy trousers to wear. After all that I’m tired, but not enough to think about sleep yet, so I make my way to the living room.   
  
Sherlock is taking the photographs and notes off the wall. John is in the kitchen but after a moment he sticks his head around the corner. “Full English?”  
  
The smell of bacon is irresistible and I suddenly realise how hungry I am. “Yes please,” I say, “do you need a hand?” John says no, so I just pull up a chair in the kitchen and sit down at the table.   
  
That in itself is worth a look, covered in all kinds of analytical glassware, a microscope, empty tea cups, and a blow torch. John puts a cup of tea in front of me, and says, “I found you a clean one.”   
  
I smile. It does feel very much like the lab in here. I say, “It’s not much different where I work, you know.” “You’ll feel right at home here then,“ he says. I nod, he’s right, I do. Too much so.  
  
To my surprise Sherlock has breakfast with us. “So you do eat, then,” I say, and he replies, “I’ve solved the case.” To him, I guess, that makes perfect sense.   
  
He gives me a quick look over, and says, “Are you going to Scotland Yard like that?”  
  
It takes me aback, I’d forgotten about the police wanting to question me. Quite apart from me looking like a chav, I have no idea what to tell them. “What do I say?” I ask.   
  
Sherlock considers this a moment.“Tell them the truth, or as much as you are comfortable with. Lestrade is brighter than he looks, and you can trust him. Just try not to talk to Sally Donovan.” After a moment he adds, “Anyway, we’re coming with you.”

  
\--ooOoo--

  
I’ve never been to Scotland Yard. In fact, I have never had any dealings with the police before and I’m nervous about it. Sherlock and John, on the other hand, seem perfectly at home here.   
  
John checks us in at reception and after the receptionist has confirmed that we are expected, Sherlock leads the way through the building until we get to a big open plan office. DI Lestrade has a large glazed section at the side, and he shows us all in.  
  
“Now I’m going to have to split you all up I’m afraid,” he says. “I’d like to know what really happened last night.” He is a good-looking man with a very deliberate but friendly manner, and he oozes trustworthiness. I get the impression that there is a lot more to him than meets the eye. He would be a very hard person to lie to.   
  
“I’ll start with you,” he says, looking at me, “Sally will attend as well.” Sherlock sighs audibly and rolls his eyes. As Lestrade goes to get his colleague, he sides over to me and says, quietly, “Remember you don’t need to tell them anything not related to the case.” I nod, thinking this is going to be tricky.  
  
Lestrade comes back with a smart looking policewoman who gives Sherlock an openly hostile greeting. “Here again, freak?” she says, as she comes in. Sherlock just raises his eyebrows, gives her a little mock bow and says, “Sally.” He doesn’t seem in a mood to take her on. I’m wondering if he’s worried about the interviews.   
  
Sally now focuses her attention on me. "And who’s this?”   
  
I don’t like the way she is looking at me, almost aggressively.“Adriane is an acquaintance of mine,” Sherlock says. “She’s a witness to the trafficking case.”  
  
Sally turns on him again. I’m glad to be let off for a moment. She has a look of fake surprise on her face. “Really?” she says. “She hangs out with you? You’re getting quite a collection.”  
  
 _Great_ , I think, _now we’ve all been insulted_. John looks stoic.   
  
Sherlock looks out of the window, obviously having decided that she isn’t worth his time.  
  
Lestrade has been getting some paperwork ready from his desk, but he now straightens up and says, “Cut it out, Sally. They did us a massive favour last night. If all those disappearances had gotten into the papers our name would have been mud.”  
  
Sally gives a humph and looks at me again. “Come on then,” she says, walking out of the room. I follow her to a small interview room, and wonder how much of a grilling I am going to get. DI Lestrade follows a few minutes later.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
The interview is surprisingly short and easy. Lestrade is doing all the questioning and he asks the basics, but does not seem to want to go into too much detail. He doesn’t question how I know Sherlock and John, which I am relieved about, but he does spend some time questioning me about why I volunteered to be abducted. I find it easy to say that I felt so sorry for the girl with the baby, that Sherlock had a watertight plan, and that it was never meant to get out of hand.   
  
I can see that Sally is chomping at the bit to ask more awkward questions, to get to the bottom of this, but the Detective Inspector is blatantly ignoring her. When we get to what happened at the gang’s headquarters he is very sensitive in his questioning. It is obvious that he wants to know exactly what happened, but he’s careful not to go into upsetting detail.   
  
I tell the story as well as I can, although there are bits that I am finding very hard to recount. When we have finished Lestrade leaves and Sally takes photographs of my back and throat. I’m not comfortable being in the same room with her, and I am waiting for her to start asking me more questions.   
  
She doesn’t, concentrating on the job in hand, and looking aghast at the state of my back. However, when she finishes and I am dressed again she stands right in front of me and says, “You were very lucky last night. You could have been killed, and there would have been nobody, not even Sherlock Holmes, who could have stopped those guys if they’d been determined to do you in. Don’t count on it happening again. You are playing with your life, Miss Woodford, and I suggest you get out while you still can.”   
  
With that she walks out of the room, leaving me to trail behind her back to the office.  
  
I get parked in a dingy tea room while Sherlock and John are going through their interviews. They seem to be much longer than mine, and I am wondering if Lestrade is giving them a hard time. When they finally emerge, Sherlock is in a dreadful mood and John is looking exhausted.   
  
The taxi drive back to Baker Street is tense, broken only occasionally by Sherlock muttering curses aimed at bureaucracy, laws, the police in general and Sally Donovan in particular. John tries to put in some calming words, only to be slammed down mercilessly every time he opens his mouth. In the end he gives up and stares out of the window, saying nothing. Sherlock seems even more upset now that he has nobody to argue with anymore and goes into a sulk. I keep a low profile.

  
\--ooOoo--

  
When we get back to Baker Street Mrs Hudson is waiting for us in the hallway. Sherlock ignores her and goes straight upstairs, but John says hello.   
  
“Somebody put a bee in his bonnet?” she asks, pointing up the stairs. John answers, “I think Lestrade upset him. I believe he might have told him he needs to stay legal.” He gives her a comedy look.   
  
Mrs Hudson laughs. “I’ve made you all a nice pot of stew,” she says. “Seeing as how you still have a visitor.” She eyes me up curiously. “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced yet.”   
  
I shake her hand and tell her my name. She has a good look at my face but doesn’t say anything. “Go on then, up you go, and make sure you get some food into you. You look absolutely starving.”   
  
She gives John a big pan from the kitchen and we go upstairs after saying our thanks. Sherlock is standing in front of the window, looking out. He ignores John when he announces  
dinner, so John and I eat together, without much conversation. I am too tired to talk much anyway, and the atmosphere in the room is tense.   
  
John disappears to the kitchen after dinner, refusing my help, and after a while Sherlock seems to make up his mind about something and he sits down and picks up a book. The tension dissipates a little.

  
The next thing I am aware of is John shaking me by the shoulder, “Adri, wake up.”  
  
I must have fallen asleep on the sofa. I open my eyes and he says, “Go to bed, Adri, you need to rest. Doctor’s orders.” Which bed, I think, looking at them both. Sherlock gives a little nod towards his bedroom. I say thank you and disappear. Sleep arrives almost immediately.   
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here - have the final chapter while I'm at it. It's only a bit of domestic fluff after all. Well. Mostly.

When I wake up it is dark. I am wondering why I woke, but then I realise that John is shouting at Sherlock.  
  
“Sherlock, she could have been killed. You’ve got to stop this.” I prick up my ears.  
  
“John, she volunteered. She knew full well what she was in for, I was honest with her. She did a good job,” Sherlock replies, sounding completely calm. They are arguing about me.  
  
I’m not sure what to do, whether to stay here and eavesdrop, or whether to butt in and end up getting shouted at.  
  
“She didn’t volunteer, Sherlock, and you know it. She was volunteered. You set her up. And I noticed you chose not to tell her that we lost the GPS signal and ended up driving aimlessly around Norfolk for forty minutes,” John says. “So much for honesty.”  
  
Sherlock sighs. “Listen, she was in hysterics. Even you didn’t think it was medically prudent to tell her that at the time. I note you sidetracked the conversation.”  
  
“You’ve had plenty of chances since,” John says. He’s not backing down. I decide to stay in the room and listen, rather than be caught in the crossfire. However, it seems it is not my decision to make.  
  
The door opens and Sherlock appears. “Care to join the discussion, I’m sure we’d appreciate your point of view?” he says, sounding only slightly sarcastic.  
  
I’m not sure I want to. I’m half asleep and I haven’t even got to grips with what I’ve just heard. I’m embarrassed at being found listening in, not sure how Sherlock knew I was awake in the first place, and all in all I feel completely caught on the back foot. Sherlock disappears but leaves the door open, leaving me little choice but to get up and join them.  
  
John is standing in the middle of the room. He looks concerned when I come in. “You heard that, yeah?”  
  
I nod. I’m not sure what to say.  
  
“We lost the signal of the van about three quarters of the way into the journey into Norfolk,” Sherlock says. He’s sitting in his chair, looking outwardly calm, regarding John and myself in turn.  
  
“I worked out from the map the route the van was taking and its most likely destination, which was coastal. Then we did a search on abandoned properties and isolated farmsteads in the area. There weren’t that many to check out. We found you in less than half an hour from when we started looking. There was no driving around aimlessly,” he sounds terse, glancing across to John. “I knew what I was doing.”  
  
I can manage an “Oh”.  
  
Sherlock looks back at me when he continues. “John seems to think that it was too close to call and that I should refrain from enlisting your services in the future.”  
  
It takes me a moment to untangle the beautiful words into their harsh meaning. What he’s saying is he’s going to send me away and I will not hear from him again. I very much doubt I’d be invited back just for tea and biscuits.  
  
I don’t want to think about this just yet. “How did you know I was awake?” I ask.  
  
“With the level of noise that John was producing? Of course you were awake,” Sherlock says. John looks away and says, “sorry, Adri.”  
  
The room goes quiet. John is looking at the floor, and Sherlock is staring at the wall. I try to get my thoughts in order. “Can I say something?” I ask.  
  
Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. I look at John, and say, “I knew I was being set up. I’m not stupid.”I notice Sherlock smiling briefly to himself.  
  
John says, “That’s not really the point, Adri. You should have never got into that situation in the first place.”  
  
I am thinking very hard. There is no way I'm just letting this go. “You put yourself in danger all the time,” I say to John.  
  
He gives me a hard stare. “That’s different. I was trained by the military. You’re a chemist, for Christ’s sake.”  
  
I am wondering if he is trying to get me angry. “Can’t you just think of me as learning on the job?” I say.  
  
Another brief smile from Sherlock. He’s not looking at either of us, just listening, but he seems to be enjoying himself.  
  
“I am a consenting adult when it gets down to it,” I say to John. “I’d like to think I can make my own decisions”.  
  
John is still looking at me. “I am just worried that you consent a little too easily.”  
  
That hurts, and he knows it. Great, I think, he thinks I’m a walkover. Now I do feel angry.  
  
“That’s my decision, John. And if you ask anyone that knows me you’ll find I don’t generally let people walk all over me. I make that choice. Submissive never meant _weak_.”  
  
He gives me a long, curious look. Then he shakes his head. “Fine,” he says with a sigh. “Suit yourself. But I’m not the only one who’s thinking it. Lestrade said exactly the same.”  
  
At this, Sherlock looks across to me. “And I take it that Sally Donovan had a quiet word with you?” he asks.  
  
“It wasn’t exactly quiet,” I say. It’s the right thing to say. Even John smiles.  
  
Sherlock gets up. “Thank you John, that was most elucidating.” John looks confused, but Sherlock just says, “Good night,” and walks towards the bedroom.  
  
“Sherlock, where are you going?”  
  
Sherlock stops. “To bed.”  
  
I can see in John’s face that he is trying to stay calm, but he knows that Sherlock is trying to wind him up.  “But Sherlock, I thought you were on the sofa."  
  
“You’re sitting on it.”  
  
John looks to me for some help but I’m still recovering from the last argument and I’m completely at a loss. I’m not even sure what the point is he’s trying to make. I get the impression he’s just getting his own back for everyone being on his case all afternoon.  
  
“We can get off if you want,” John says.  
  
“It’s my bed,” Sherlock holds out. “The sofa is not comfortable.”  
  
“Oh but come on, Sherlock, where’s Adri going to sleep?” John is losing his patience now. Sherlock just gives him a calm stare and says,  “it’s a double bed."  
  
John looks at me again, as if looking for some guidance on whether or not to carry on this argument. I don’t think it’s worth it, so shake my head, imperceptibly I hope.  
  
“Thank you, Adriane,” Sherlock says as he disappears into the bedroom. John sighs and passes me a beer.  
  
We drink in silence for a while, until John says, “I can sleep on the sofa if you want. You can have my bed.”  
  
I think about it for a moment. “He wins whatever we do, John. Either you spend an uncomfortable night on the sofa, or I do.” John cuts in, “oh no, that wouldn’t do,” and I continue, “Or I give in and join him and that way at least everyone sleeps in a bed. It’s not like he’s likely to jump on me, he’s just proving a point.”  
  
John snorts. “He’s a spectacular arse sometimes. I’m sorry, Adri.”  
  
I look at him. “We’re not so very different, you and I,” I say. “You don’t just put up with him, you’d do anything for him. You risk your life for him on a regular basis.”  
  
He thinks about it for a while. “I owe him a lot,” he finally says.  
  
“And that doesn’t make you a walkover,” I say. “Or weak. It makes you stronger. And it makes me stronger.”  
  
He just looks at me thoughtfully for a while, then finishes his beer. “Come on, I’ll do your back.”

 

\--ooOoo--

  
I’m not sure what to expect when I get to bed. I’m hoping Sherlock will be asleep, which would be the best way to avoid an awkward situation. There’s not a lot of light in the room so I undress in the dark. I feel my way to the bed and lie down.  
  
Almost instantly Sherlock rolls over to look at me. “So you are happy for me to walk all over you then,” he says, as if the break in the conversation never happened.  
  
I’m trying not to let him get to me. “Oh, you picked up on that,” I say. “That came out wrong.”  
  
He rolls back. “No, it didn’t.”  
  
He’s right, I think, it didn’t, and he’s just proved it. There are a hundred things I wish I could say to get some kind of dignity back. I’m beginning to believe he probably has an answer to all of them. In the end, I say nothing, roll over and try to get some sleep.  
  
To my surprise he rolls back towards me and puts his arm over me. It hurts a little on my back but I am too grateful for a bit of comfort to care.  
  
“Adriane,” he says, “you’re going to have to learn to say no to me. They’re right, you know. I’ll end up getting you killed. You’d be better off out of this."  
  
I take his hand, thinking ab out it, staring into the darkness. “I trust you,” I say in the end. “John does, too. That’s enough for me.”

 

 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
I fall asleep like that, but when I wake up I am alone. It’s only barely getting light but the sound of Sherlock playing the violin is filling the house.  
  
For a while I just lie there listening to the music, wondering what the day will bring. I feel emotionally drained and consider just staying in bed, hiding until my back has healed up. I’m not sure I can cope with Sherlock in whatever mood he will be in. My back is sore and my head is a blurry confused mess. I roll over and pull the covers over my head.

 

 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
“Are you getting up? I’ve got bacon,” John says from the doorway. He’s holding a plate. It smells delicious.  
  
“Sorry,” I say, “what time is it?”  
  
“Eleven o’clock,” he grins.  
  
I sit bolt upright. I didn’t realise I’d fallen asleep again. On reflection, I probably needed it.  
  
After breakfast John does my back again and I get dressed. Sherlock is in the kitchen doing an experiment, and I watch him for a while.  
  
“Can I look at your books?” I ask when he stops for a moment.  
  
“Not the ones on the top two shelves,” he says. I wonder what’s in those, but I don’t pry.  
  
Sherlock's book collection is large and varied and I spend the afternoon reading, while Sherlock works and John writes his blog. In the evening John orders a takeaway and we play Cluedo, but Sherlock works out who did it within the first two rounds, so instead he and John settle on a game of chess and I watch.  
  
Sherlock maintains the bizarre sleeping arrangements, but this night John doesn’t argue and I don’t mind.  
  
Friday passes in a similar fashion, quietly. Sherlock spends some of the day at Bart’s and I carry on reading. I offer to cook to have something to do and John gets the shopping.  
  
When Sherlock gets back he ropes me into one of his chemistry experiments. It’s nice to be able to do something I’m good at.  
  
“Don’t use sanything in the fridge please,” John says as I venture into the kitchen. “You never know what you'll find in there.”  
  
I decide to leave the fridge alone, and cook pasta because it’s something I know how to do and most people like it. After dinner John checks my back again.  
  
“That’s it I think,” he says when he finishes. “Everything is covered up as long as you don’t scratch it. You are medically discharged.”  
  
I thank him for all his good cares. He smiles, but there's something sad about the way he looks at me. I guess he wishes it hadn't been necessary at all.

 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
John goes out for the evening to have drinks with a friend. Sherlock is absorbed in something on his laptop and hasn’t said a word since dinner, and I try to read but find it hard to keep my eyes open. In the end I take the easy option and just go to bed.  
  
It’s a bit strange to think that tomorrow I will be home again, sleeping in my own bed, not knowing whether I’ll be invited back here. I can’t let the thought go, which means I can’t settle to sleep.  
  
After about an hour the door opens and Sherlock comes in. I’m still wide awake, so I watch him as he gets undressed. He's not putting on a show in any way but he has such an easy elegance about him, a precise gracefulness even in something as mundane as this, that I am watching him with fascination.  
  
As usual he is down to his underwear and it allows me to admire his muscular body. It drives home just how physically attractive he is and I can't help thinking how much I really do want him. As he lies down I try to calm my thoughts and do something  
about my facial expression.  
  
“I thought you were tired,” he says, looking at me, leaning on one elbow.  
  
“Can’t sleep,” I just say. I can feel his body warmth and it is doing nothing at all to calm  me down. On a whim I decide to go for it. I’ve got nothing to lose, after all, and I have no doubt that he's read my thoughts already anyway.  
  
I run my hand down his chest, gently, and say, “Sherlock, would you…” I can’t quite find the right words. “I’m going home tomorrow,” I start again. “I may not see you again.”  
  
He’s just looking at me now, making this very hard. His eyes are slightly narrowed when he says, “I believe what you are asking for is called a sympathy fuck.”  
  
I wince at the word. I wouldn’t have called it that, but he’s basically right. He’s also waiting for an answer, so I look at my hands and say, “Yes.” He has a way of making this stuff very embarrassing.  
  
Instead of saying anything, he reaches out and pulls the straps of my nightshirt down my arms and over my hands. Then he takes hold of both my wrists and puts my arms over my head, pinning me down with one hand. With the other hand he expertly pulls down my nightshirt altogether, taking my pants down at the same time. Then he takes off his own shorts with equal ease.  
  
I am taken aback. I was expecting him to be as awkward as the last time. He is watching me, and I know the thought must be written all over my face.  
  
“Don’t assume _anything_ , Adriane,” he says quietly.  
  
I realise I have misjudged him completely, but I have no time to think - the next moment he is over me and inside me and it is like I am being taken over by some great tidal wave.  
  
There is no coming up for air, no space for rational thought as he is moving on me, still holding my arms over my head, his other hand having free reign over my body, touching me, owning me. His mouth is on my neck and throat, and I am losing all sense of place and time as I get swept away in this and the rhythm takes over my body until there is nothing else left in the world.  
  
I surface when he suddenly stops and holds still. I’m confused, barely catching my breath, my head a garbled mess. I realise I am swearing.  
  
He puts his hand over my mouth until I can only breathe through my nose. His face is very close to mine, his ice-blue eyes fixing me. He is only looking slightly flustered.  
  
Very quietly, he says, “I am going to let you come, but you are going to be quiet about it.”  
  
I am at a point where the only things left in my brain are lust and obscenities, but he is waiting for me to respond so I acknowledge as well as I can.  
  
He slowly runs his hand from my mouth over my throat to my nipple, watching me all the time, and I gasp and writhe with the sensation and the need for him to move inside me. He is staying still, just playing gently with my nipple until all I want to do is scream. Then, just as I think I can’t stand any more, he begins to move again, slowly, deliberately.  
  
I can feel everything, every part of my body is sensitised. My skin is burning as if it is electrified. The world dissolves into pure feeling as I reach orgasm and I feel Sherlock come too, adding to the waves and transporting me to a different place entirely. Through it all runs the vague notion of trying to be quiet, and I honestly don‘t know whether I manage or not.

 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
  
It takes me a while to come down enough to form a coherent  thought. The first thing that comes out is, “Jesus Christ, Sherlock.”  
  
He is still holding me down, but now he lets go of my arms and slides off. He looks at me, face emotionless, and says quietly, “Don’t underestimate me, Adriane. Just because I don’t, doesn’t mean I can’t. And that is my choice.”  
  
He considers me a moment longer and adds, “You have all the self-control of a child. Work on it.” Then he rolls over and falls asleep almost instantly.

 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
The next morning I am alone again when I wake up. I get dressed and get my things together, head still in a muddle. I'm wondering if I can just make my way to the lounge quietly, really not sure whether I want to face either Sherlock or John at all this morning.  
  
Unfortunately Sherlock is in the kitchen, experimenting, and John is with him. After a moment's hesitation I make my way past them into the lounge, keeping my head down, and sit down on the sofa.  
  
Almost immediately John puts his head around the corner and says good morning, and do I want a cup of tea. I say yes please, but I don’t make my way back to the kitchen.  
  
I really can’t face up to Sherlock’s smugness so I sit on the sofa and end up just staring into space. He looks across to me for a moment and smiles to himself, then carries on with his work.  
  
Not what I needed, I think, good morning would have been better.  
  
John comes over with my tea. “Are you OK?”  
  
I nod, and say yes, I’m fine. He doesn’t look like he believes me very much. "Are you sure?” He gives me a searching look. I still can’t focus very well.  
  
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound convincing.  
  
He raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he goes back into the kitchen. He is talking quietly, but I can hear him say, “Sherlock, what have you done with Adri? She looks completely spaced out.”  
  
Sherlock ignores him but I can seem him smirk. John must have seen it too, because he says, “Sherlock, I am asking you as her doctor. Have you drugged her or something?”  
  
Now Sherlock looks up. “The thought hadn’t occurred,” he says.  
  
John is giving him the hard stare. He clearly doesn’t want to let this go.  
  
Sherlock seems to weigh it up for a moment. Then he says, “I gave her something to think about. In the most positive sense of the word. I can assure you she didn’t get hurt, doctor.” He gives John a long look across the table and carries on with his work.  
  
“Oh,” John says, and then “ _Oh_.” I head to the bathroom.  
  
When I come out, John is waiting for me. “Adri, are you sure you're all right?”  
  
I can see he is worried, and a little embarrassed. I take a deep breath and say, “Yes, it’s fine. I’ll be fine. I need to go home.”  
  
He is still looking worried. I shake my head to clear it. “Look, John, I’m fine. I got exactly what I asked for. I just didn’t see it coming. I need to go and sort my head out.” He gives me one last searching look, then nods.

 

  
\--ooOoo--

  
Breakfast is a quiet affair. I have nothing to say, Sherlock is stuck behind his microscope and John doesn’t try to make polite conversation. Afterwards I get all my things together and John calls a taxi.  
  
As I am about to leave, Sherlock looks up from his work. “I’ll be in touch, Adriane,” he says, then he returns to his studies once more.  
  
I remember Sally Donovan’s words, _get out while you still can_. I realise it’s too late for that, it was too late for that even before I walked out of UCL and knocked on the door of 221B Baker street, and it’s certainly too late for that now.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t even look up when I go, but then I didn’t expect him to; he has me exactly where he wants me. Thankfully John takes me downstairs. To my surprise he gives me a big bear hug before I get in the taxi. He looks at me, still a little worried.  
  
“Look after yourself, Adri,” he says. “Don’t let him mess with your head.”  
  
I give him a little smile, and say, “It’s a bit late for that, John.”  
  
He returns the smile.  “In that case, just make sure you look after yourself,” he says, and gives me another hug.  
  
“That’s what _I_ do."  



End file.
